


Anthony J. Crowley and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good (Actually Very Good) Day

by unicornpoe



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Crowley is Bad at Feelings (Good Omens), Dinner, First Kiss, Fluff, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, Schmoop, Soft Aziraphale (Good Omens), Soft Crowley (Good Omens), when you suppress something for 6000 years it tends to come up eventually
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-18
Updated: 2019-06-18
Packaged: 2020-05-14 00:33:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,041
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19262359
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unicornpoe/pseuds/unicornpoe
Summary: “Crowley,” says Aziraphale, and that’s it. Just that, just Crowley’s name—and yet Crowley would do almost anything to hear him say it like that (like Aziraphale is happy, like Aziraphale is surprised by something Crowley has said or done or showed him and inordinately pleased by it) every single day.Aziraphale’s fingers slide up a bit further, and they make a delicate circle around Crowley’s wrist. Crowley has to resist the urge to purr. He’s a snake, not a fucking kitten.***Aziraphale takes Crowley to dinner.





	Anthony J. Crowley and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good (Actually Very Good) Day

**Author's Note:**

> I wasn't really sure that I'd write for these two again, but they ABSOLUTELY WILL NOT LEAVE ME AND MY BRAIN AND MY HEART ALONE, so... here you go! Enjoy some soft, fluffy, cute-ass husbands.

It is not a good day. Crowley mists his plants with what he considers to be unbridled sulkiness. 

Here are five facts:

 

  1. Crowley is hungry (insomuch as a demon can be), but he doesn’t want to eat without Aziraphale.
  2. Aziraphale is across town in his bookshop doing Aziraphale Things and doesn’t know that Crowley is hungry.
  3. In order for Aziraphale to be Here rather than There and to know that Crowley is hungry, Crowley will need to either fetch him or, assuming Aziraphale’s phone is working this decade, call him.
  4. But Crowley has decided that he probably calls Aziraphale too much and drives to go fetch Aziraphale too much and that he should cool it with the whole Aziraphale business in general.
  5. Crowley is pissed off.



 

“BE SHINY,” bellows Crowley, misting the waxy leaves of a plant he’s forgotten the name of with aggressive intent. The leaves tremble slightly before him, fat drops of collected water sliding off and dripping onto Crowley’s snakeskin shoes. “I AM A CHILD OF SATAN,” he shrieks, spraying wildly. “QUIVER BEFORE ME.”

The leaves quiver. He is left feeling quite unsatisfied.

“Ugh,” Crowley says at a normal volume level, letting the spray bottle drop out of his fingers which have suddenly gone lax as his whole body slumps. He can feel himself shivering, feel himself shaking, feel his snake form longing to take over; he is possessed of the urge to hibernate for another hundred or so years.

Only Aziraphale was so displeased that last time Crowley disappeared for a century with no warning.

Just as Crowley is beginning to slink off to his nice, soft bed—just a few hours of languishing, nothing major—the buzzer on his door rings.

He knows who it is immediately, because really, who else would it be?

And although Crowley cannot deny the fact that his heart leapt in his chest when he heard that buzzer, he is conscious of trying to appear as outwardly unaffected as possible as he slinks through the sterile white hallway and opens the door to find Aziraphale, beaming up at him.

“Hello, dear boy!” says Aziraphale, sounding cheerful and looking cheerful and casting such a beautiful, heavenly glow over everything that Crowley wonders why he bothers to put up with this angel.

Well, he doesn’t really wonder. He’s known for at least the past six thousand years.

“Angel,” Crowley says, tipping his chin up in what he hopes is a disinterested manner.

Aziraphale smiles at him.

It is a rare, sunny day in London. The rays pour through the cracks and gaps in the clouds, spill down over Aziraphale, adding an even brighter cast to the usual aura of brightness that always accompanies him. It catches in the fair curls of his hair, and turns them into something golden and brilliant—an image that is closer to a halo than anything Crowley has ever seen Aziraphale wear. Crowley wants to sink forward into him, Crowley wants to get on his knees and wrap his arms and Aziraphale’s waist and bury his face in Aziraphale’s stomach.

Crowley doesn’t.

“I was just wondering,” begins Aziraphale, his hands latched behind his back, looking up at Crowley from the stoop below like Crowley is someone kind and worthy of knowing him, “If you might be interested in joining me for a spot of dinner?”

_ Oh, you,  _ Crowley thinks.  _ You’re it, aren’t you? _

“I dunno, Aziraphale,” says Crowley with his best attempt at mildly, because, you know, pretenses and all that jazz. He doesn’t think he succeeds very well: Aziraphale’s expression is terribly fond, just in that way it always is when he sees past whatever Crowley is trying to hide behind, and it leaves Crowley feeling an odd blend of cross and dazed and in love.

Aziraphale takes that extra step up over Crowley’s threshold, and one of his soft, warm hands covers Crowley’s where it rests on the doorframe. “Come along, dear,” says Aziraphale kindly, smiling with his rosy cheeks and his round blue eyes. “You’ve not had a good day, have you?”

Crowley shakes his head. No point in hiding it.

“No,” Aziraphale agrees, patting the hand. The corners of his eyes crinkle, the only indication that his smile is widening. “This will perk you right back up, I always say.”

If anything is going to perk Crowley right back up, it is going to be following along behind his angel and doing whatever, whenever he is told, if only Aziraphale is with him.  _ I’m an idiot, _ thinks Crowley as he steps down outside with Aziraphale, lets Aziraphale thread their arms together into a position that is both proper and personal, lets Aziraphale miracle his door locked behind him. He doesn’t call Aziraphale too much, or drive to fetch Aziraphale too much—not if when he doesn’t, Aziraphale just comes to  _ him. _

It’s telling, he thinks, it’s indicative of something.

“Where’re you taking me, angel?” Crowley asks, not really caring if he has an answer or not, more just talking because this is what they do: meet, discuss light, inconsequential things—or sometimes heavy, really important things—and let all of the scattered bits of themselves slowly center again as they carve out a bubble of peace for the two of them in this chaotic, beautiful world.   

“Well,” begins Aziraphale, slowing his pace to match Crowley’s languid stroll in a decision that seems unconscious. “There’s a lovely little Italian place that I’ve been meaning to try, and I think it might be just up your street, Crowley…”

***

The restaurant is nice. It  _ is _ just up Crowley’s street, he decides, leaning his chin in his hand and watching Aziraphale finish off the tiramasu that they’ve split. Less because Crowley enjoyed the food or the wine or the service (though all were good), and more because of how much this place seems like an Aziraphale Place: it is small and the tables are crowded close together, everything lit with fat white candles that drip aromatically into round silver dishes, the air scented with garlic and butter, the customers and staff happy, the general atmosphere cozy and well-loved.

Aziraphale fits right in. He looks comfortable and at home; he looks pleased and sated.

It’s a place Crowley might come back to someday, even without Aziraphale, if he really had to. Demons don’t have to eat and so he doesn’t at all by himself, unless he’s struck by a particularly strong human whim,  _ but _ ; he might come back here. It reminds him enough of his friend.

“Delicious,” Aziraphale murmurs to himself, and Crowley smiles before he can catch himself and stop.

Aziraphale meets Crowley’s eye as he’s lifting his half-empty wine glass to take a sip. He pauses, and then lowers the glass back down carefully to the table, not looking away from Crowley.

Candle flame dances in Aziraphale’s pupils.

Crowley’s heart dances in his chest.

Their hands are very close together on top of the creamy white tablecloth—mere centimeters exist between them. Aziraphale, easy as anything, shrinks those centimeters by lifting his hand and setting it back down right on top of Crowley’s, firm and deliberate and warm.

It shouldn’t be something that so shocks Crowley, he registers faintly. And yet it is. It emphatically is.

“Do you want to tell me what’s wrong, my dear?” Aziraphale asks him softly.

“Oh,” says Crowley stupidly. He is stuck staring at the way Aziraphale’s fingers look lined up on top of his own slightly longer ones, at all of the places where their skin meets. His brain feels thick, slow, heavy, like all of his thoughts are being pushed through water. “Nothing now, Aziraphale.”

“Crowley,” says Aziraphale, and that’s it. Just that, just Crowley’s name—and yet Crowley would do almost anything to hear him say it like that (like Aziraphale is happy, like Aziraphale is surprised by something Crowley has said or done or showed him and inordinately pleased by it) every single day.

Aziraphale’s fingers slide up a bit further, and they make a delicate circle around Crowley’s wrist. Crowley has to resist the urge to purr. He’s a snake, not a fucking kitten.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale repeats, and finally Crowley looks at him, sees the smile on his face like something perfect is happening, like stars being born, like the world not ending, like six thousand years of friendship, “let’s go home.”

***

They go back to Aziraphale’s bookshop, because that is where they always go when one of them says “home.” Aziraphale opens another bottle of wine for them as Crowley curls up on the loveseat in the backroom, pulling the fluffy afghan Aziraphale keeps draped over the back onto his lap and snuggling down into the cushions.

Aziraphale is speaking of something as he pours, something that he obviously finds terribly fascinating, and Crowley lets the sound of his voice wash over him like music. Here, he realizes, he is at his most comfortable. Here, in this space that is so much more inviting than his cold, empty flat; here, with this angel who means more to Crowley than any being from Heaven, Hell, or Earth.

Aziraphale glances up and catches Crowley staring, and he does something disastrous and lovely with his gaze, flicking it over Crowley and making him shiver even though there is a fire going in the grate and the afghan is thick and warm. “What are you staring at?” Aziraphale asks, smiling like he knows.

Crowley sinks further down into his burrow, watching as Aziraphale comes to sit near his feat. He sets the two glasses of wine on the coffee table and then rests his hand on Crowley’s shins, just in time for Crowley’s voice to come out higher and thinner than usual on his next phrase.

“Nothing at all.”

Crowley’s skin feels warm.

Aziraphale is looking at him. Looking and looking and looking, as if he doesn’t want to stop. There’s an expression on his face like he is determined to do something, but it’s softened by the fondness in his eyes, usually so shuttered to Crowley. Moments like these are rare: moments when neither one of them have their shields up to each other.

Dipping his head and looking up through his lashes, Aziraphale’s expression almost hurts Crowley with its tenderness. “I quite love you, you know,” murmurs Aziraphale.

Crowley stares at him. His whole body is frozen, suspended in time, utterly shocked. “Wha…  _ what? Who?” _

Aziraphale, absolute angelic bastard that he is, is still smiling. He delivers this truth like he’s delivering the paper, and he smiles as Crowley flails.

“You,” Aziraphale repeats quietly. “I quite love you, Crowley.”

Crowley could say:  _ you brilliant, beautiful angel, you lovely man, I have loved you for six thousand years.  _ Crowley could say:  _ say it again, say it again, never stop saying it, and neither will I.  _ Crowley could say:  _ you are the bright spot in my world. _

Crowley could say any of those things, if his voice would work.

Instead he sits up, shedding the blanket down to his waist like a snakeskin, and meets Aziraphale halfway on the small, overstuffed loveseat. He gets one leg over both of Aziraphale’s thighs, and he cups Aziraphale’s jaw as Aziraphale grips his waist with both hands.

“I’m going to kiss you now, Aziraphale,” Crowley breathes.

“I was rather hoping you might, dearest,” Aziraphale answers back.

Crowley does. He leans in close, close, until their noses bump and Aziraphale giggles softly—and then Crowley tilts his chin down and Aziraphale tilts his up, and their lips are pressed together, soft and smooth and painfully, almost unbearably alive.

Crowley can feel Aziraphale’s heartbeat, feel his pulse, feel his life's blood thrumming under the surface of his thin skin.

“ _ Oh, _ ” says Crowley. He pulls back and then surges back in again, but not to kiss: this time, he buries his face in the juncture between Aziraphale’s neck and his shoulder, his hands gripping Aziraphale’s upper arms, his breathing ragged. “ _ Oh, _ Aziraphale,” he breathes.

“Yes, darling,” Aziraphale whispers, stroking a hand through the soft hair at the nape of Crowley’s neck. Crowley can feel Aziraphale’s smile against the crown of his head. He burrows closer, clings tighter.

“I love you, too.”

It is a good day.


End file.
